


to follow, ring or no ring, mark or no mark

by lionor



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Trespasser Spoilers, cullen's got anxiety change my mind, emotional soft masculinity cullen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23415706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionor/pseuds/lionor
Summary: “You know I have to. It’s my fight, Cullen, and it’s the Inquisition’s fight too. Don’t ask me to give this up. You know I won’t.”He nodded, unable to hold her gaze. “I know. But you have to promise you’ll come back.”Cullen sat out on the terrace for a long time after Rodka had pressed his hand for the last (no, don’t think it, never last) time, trying to calm himself in the balmy spring air. He couldn’t face the fear that was growing in the pit of his stomach, fear worse than the Circle, worse than any of his old night terrors. So instead he remembered.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Cullen Rutherford/Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	to follow, ring or no ring, mark or no mark

They left the small council together, going outside to stand on Halamshiral’s terrace that overlooked the countryside. Rodka was silent, right hand absentmindedly clasping her left wrist, thumb rubbing at the muscles in her forearm. Her brows were knitted with concentration, and, Cullen thought, pain. 

After awhile he broke the silence. “You’ve never said it like that before.”

“Said what?”

“About the mark, you’ve never said…that you didn’t have much time. I didn’t realize.”

She looked down, right hand still tight around her left arm. “I didn’t want to worry you. And I didn’t expect it to…to go downhill so quickly. I think all the magic and the eluvians set it off, made it worse, something like that.”

Cullen watched her, restraining himself from reaching out to her. “Please don’t go. Let Cassandra handle this, let our forces go after the Qunari. You’re not well.”

Rodka turned on him, meeting his gaze levelly. “You know I have to. It’s my fight, Cullen, and it’s the Inquisition’s fight too. Don’t ask me to give this up. You know I won’t.” 

He nodded, unable to hold her gaze. “I know. But you have to promise you’ll come back.”

Cullen sat out on the terrace for a long time after Rodka had pressed his hand for the last ( _no, don’t think it, never last_ ) time, trying to calm himself in the balmy spring air. He couldn’t face the fear that was growing in the pit of his stomach, fear worse than the Circle, worse than any of his old night terrors. So instead he remembered.

* * *

There had been so many beginnings. The stir of something as the Herald had ordered him to evacuate Haven, save as many people as possible. The way his thoughts seemed always in step with hers, and the lurch of dread as he knew, before she said it, that she was staying behind. 

But one beginning Cullen called to mind was the letter. It made him laugh, how hard he’d tried to hide from his feelings.

_Dear Mia,_

_Yes, the Inquisition sustained losses at Haven, no I wasn’t one of them, yes, I’ve been eating, no, Skyhold is not too drafty. And yes, I can get your mail. Your envelope was perfectly clear on the address._

_None of that should surprise you of course. What did you think was going to happen? I wasn’t going to find my way out? I always do, cockroach that I’ve always been. But what might surprise you is that our fine Lady Herald of Andraste survived it too, even after we’d given her a proper martyr’s memorial in the rushed days of the evacuation. Lady Rodka Trevelyan is tougher than she looks, it turns out, as she managed to walk halfway across the mountain range after getting roughed up by a dragon._

_Thank you for your earlier note about House Trevelyan, by the way. It seems certain that I’ve worked with at least one of the Herald’s brothers, though if I did I did not know him well. And all the more intriguing that she should be sent to the Conclave. I wonder at her family’s plans for her — if the eldest son inherited the family and the second oldest joined the Templars, why did she not also choose to serve the Chantry? Was this her way of answering a calling? I shall have to ask her, if I ever find the time._

Cullen looked up as the door to what he mentally called his Operations Room opened. The newly named Inquisitor was gazing at him coolly, her short blonde hair slicked back and a dagger glinting at her waist. He was struck, as he hadn’t been before at Haven, just how dangerous the woman was beginning to look.

“Inquisitor, something I can do?” he said, shifting the letter underneath a sheaf of papers. 

She smiled tightly, a gruffness underlying her noble sheen. “I had thought, Commander, to get to know you a bit better. I realize, now, that at Haven I hadn’t made much of an effort, you see, to become familiar with the organization.” 

He sensed her awkwardness, uncomfortably remembering another letter where he’d called the Herald “brusque and unpleasant, proud and unmanageable.” He shook his head slightly at the memory and smiled. “How admirable, my lady. What would you like to know?”

He answered Rodka’s questions as briefly and politely as he could, still awkward at the memory of the older letter, and more awkward still for recalling the time after they’d just arrived to Skyhold, where he’d met her eyes too frankly. Beneath her aloofness, she’d said…she’d said he was glad he survived. And he’d said the same back, and their hands nearly brushed, and…

Well, Mia was glad he survived. _And she’s the one getting a letter,_ he thought briskly. After Rodka had left, Cullen picked up the letter again.

_Would you believe this, Mia? She had the gall just now to come into my Operations Room (technically, it’s just an old turret that’s essentially an office that doubles as my bedroom [there’s a hayloft up there! delightful!], but let me have this) and ask me about my family. She said she felt badly for not trying to know her officers better. Perhaps Free Marchers really can learn new tricks._

That would make Mia laugh. She was too practical by half. But Cullen couldn’t help craving the bits of attention the Inquisitor granted him. He wanted her to look at him again, just once, like she had in the courtyard. He hoped she could see how he anticipated her orders, sensed the way she chose to lead. He thought about writing something like, “I half believe the songs, Mia, the things they’ve already begun to sing about her. There’s a power to her. And a joy. And anger, and I want to know what each is for.” But he didn’t write such things. First of all, he knew Leliana had all outgoing mail checked, and second, he didn’t think he quite had the words.

Cullen couldn’t parse how to feel about the Inquisitor. By turns she was mercurial and rude, by others alluring. He couldn’t deny how much he wanted to reach out to her, make sure there was warm blood flowing beneath her cold exterior. Then he would see her training in the yards, obvious athleticism on display as her arrows found bullseye after bullseye. He wanted to do more than reach for her hand.

* * *

Cullen began to look forward to Rodka barging into his office, and he remembered other things he’d written to Mia, about the Herald’s unceasing curiosity, her bravery, her newfound devotion. For all of his deprecating remarks, Rodka had made an effort to know the troops and her inner circle. He remembered things Mia had written back, about being careful. “Can’t have you getting married off to some third-rate Ostwick family. Ha. I hope you laughed, brother, that was a joke.”

He had laughed. He had even done the same with Rodka, finding her wit deep beneath a excessively civil front. He had thought their small interactions were polite, and he craved Rodka’s easy charisma. She beat him at chess, cocky and devilish, and he wanted to reach across the board, take her hand, press it to his lips. Press his lips to hers and find out if they were cold. He didn’t think they were, not now. 

And over the chess board, across the war table, perched by his desk, she began to talk to him, he to her, jokes and truths and snippets of the past. He told her about his family, joking lightly about how often Mia pestered him for news. 

Another chess game, Rodka losing this time. She shook her head ruefully. 

“Nobility or not, I wish my family wanted to hear from me. We were never too close.”

Cullen frowned sympathetically, shifting a pawn. “Knowing my family would care about what happened to me was all that got me through the Blight. Even the rebellion.”

She smiled, her eyes still dark. “I think there’s quite a bit more strength to you than disappointing Mia’s letter-writing schedule.”

He laughed. “One day you’ll have to meet Mia. Then perhaps you’ll understand just how strong you have to be to withstand her epistolary wrath.”

Rodka laughed outright. “I accept your challenge, Commander.”

* * *

He didn’t deserve her, of course. As often as they laughed and talked, Rodka didn’t suspect his weakness. Cullen dreaded the disappointment he was sure to find in her face, searched for it in every conversation even before he told Cassandra to find a replacement. 

Cullen had done his best, in the mad weeks and months after Kirkwall and Haven, to put aside his own guilt and self-loathing. But the lyrium addiction was taking its toll and everything felt like too much all the time, Cassandra’s dark appraising eyes always waiting for him to fall apart. When Rodka saw him break down. 

He didn’t write to Mia about how she’d watched him as he’d spoken haltingly of the pain lyrium’s lack brought on, first wary and terrified, not of him but for him, and how he nearly collapsed into her arms. It took everything in him not to take her waiting hand. _She doesn’t know what I am,_ he chanted over and over to himself. _She doesn’t know what I’ve done._ He hated himself for the broken glass on the floor, the shattered remains of his shame sharp and glittering. 

She moved toward him, marked hand outstretched, and as much as he ached to turn into it, he backed up, motioning toward the glass. 

“Cullen, are you all right?” she asked—for a second or third time, he realized, shaking. 

He cleared his throat and gave a curt nod. “I’m not concerned for my health. I’m concerned for my fitness as commander.”

Finally she did touch him, hands resting lightly on his shoulders. “Cullen, you are fit to command my armies. Cassandra believes it, I believe it. And I believe that you must do what is right for you.” She left his addiction unsaid, did not call it into being again. With her hands on his shoulders, her face suddenly so near, he relaxed. The lyrium’s call went silent. But as much as he wanted to, he did not tilt his head up to meet her gaze, did not dare to read potential into the closeness of her lips. 

But after that day potential seemed to crackle around them. He felt torn open when she was near, imagined he could sense the power of her mark, the electricity of her uncanny magic. His letters home were a bit curt and short, filled with crossed-out lines and blotches. Every distant door slam was the potential of Rodka coming to see him, and every moment she didn’t appear was a disappointment. 

The Inquisitor never requested meetings. She just arrived and meetings began. So when Rodka appeared in his office—days, weeks, later, too long to count, too short for the tension to dissipate—his scouts were giving him a debrief, their allotted meeting time well underway. They left after Cullen stood up and cleared his throat meaningfully. 

“Shall we step outside, my lady?”

There was something wolfish in her smile. “Lead the way, Commander.

On the parapet overlooking the mountains, they gazed at each other. He started to say something stupid—no, better not remember that—and then Cullen found that kissing Rodka was the easiest thing he had ever done. He had stuttered to a halt, and then he met her eyes, dancing with suppressed mirth. The moment seemed to stretch on forever, the sun warm and the air brisk as their lips met at last. 

“I can’t tell you how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he breathed, afraid to move away, terrified the moment would dissipate. 

He did not expect her laughter, and tried to shield her face with his body from the startled stares of awkward sentries. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve been waiting for you to give it a try,” she murmured, the laugh still warming her voice. 

Seconds—days—months, Maker only knew, with the world moving too quickly. When he (finally, Maker, at last) took her, sprawled out over his office desk, her muscles lithe and corded beneath him moving in time, she reached her marked hand out to caress his scars, and he felt like he was home. 

“I can’t not come back to this,” she breathed, arching into him. “You make a home worth having.” She didn’t realize the parallels to his own thoughts, and he didn’t say anything. He just pressed his lips to her shoulders, and when she caressed his face with her left hand he kissed her mark too. He couldn’t say it, not yet, but he hoped that with every kiss she could understand: _I love you, every bit of you, every twist of your destiny. I will follow you if it kills me._

* * *

When Rodka wasn’t at Skyhold, she wrote him letters. Notes, really, nothing like the long, monthly updates he was accustomed to with his family. They were just tiny missives that she slipped in with Harding’s reports. She must have worked out a deal with the scout to have them delivered before crossing Leliana’s path. They were little things, but each one caught in his heart, tied up his throat and left him breathless, missing her.

_I miss waking up with you._

_Clean up your desk. I’ll be home tomorrow and I demand a meeting._

_I love you._

She wrote it before she said it. She wrote it down before he dared breathe it into existence. Uncanny similarities to their working minds.

And she was home, before he knew it she was back and safe from danger and safe in his bed, blonde hair spiked and mussy and warm with morning. He could face any evil dream with her to wake up to. The joy was being awake, pressing against her in the dawn light, feeling every inch of her strong and vibrant. 

But Cullen tried not to remember the evenings that he spent in the Chantry chapel as sunset came and went, praying for Rodka’s safe return. It was impossible not to thank the Maker every time she charged through Skyhold’s gates, sunlight streaming behind her, resolve unshaken.

* * *

And as much as he tried, in his long balcony vigil, not to remember, unbidden came the cloud that covered their last few months.

_Dear Cullen,_

_After the Hakkon dragon, I stood on a beach and listened to another man’s memory, of Halamshiral needing him. I wonder now if I am needed too. These last years…well, you know. They’ve been glorious._

_But I stood in the twilight and listened to the crickets and I thought, it’s time to come home. It’s time to finish this. You know I’m too proud to let the Inquisition fade away, but you also know how many nights I can’t sleep for the mark. I’m the strongest and yet the weakest I’ve ever been._

_Help me do the right thing. I’ll see you in Halamshiral soon._

_Rodka_

Cullen read the letter, trying to ignore the fear in favor of the joy: _She’s coming home_ warred with _She’s falling apart._ He fingered the ring in his pocket, where he’d kept it for weeks since he’d asked Mia her opinion and she’d smiled at how he blushed when he said the Inquisitor’s name in the same sentence as “hand in marriage.”

Mia had laughed, too, when he suggested that perhaps it wasn’t such a bad thing to marry into minor nobility. “Trevelyans are third-rate Ostwick landed gentry and not much more. But she obviously makes you happy. And a little land and a title never harmed anyone.” 

Before Cullen knew it, Rodka was back, tanned and hardened after a few months in the southern Frostbacks. He took her in, searching for the vulnerability she’d written of. Nothing was unusual, nothing out of the ordinary, dragon defeat notwithstanding. Save the slight favor she gave to her left hand. It was worse. He passed her a dish at dinner and she had almost dropped it, laughing off her clumsiness and flexing her fingers unconsciously. 

Still the ring sat in his pocket. It felt red hot and he longed to take up her painful left hand, massage it, and slip the gold band onto her finger. Something held him back, and it wasn’t the anxiety of marrying into nobility and gaining a minor title. 

The last three years were unraveling before his eyes. Rodka hid it from him well but every night she seemed to fall into rifts made of her own dreams, a void yawning in front of her. She seemed determined in her waking hours to charge up to it and jump.

* * *

She had jumped. When the Iron Bull came staggering through the eluvian with a lifeless Rodka in his arms, he knew she’d met whatever void she’d been fighting in her dreams. Soldiers and healers and Chantry sisters rushed about and Cullen found himself alone in the courtyard again. It took effort to shake off his stupor, follow the chaos to her side. 

He couldn’t breathe, watching her comatose in the bed. As he watched her left arm crackling with magic fire, he’d felt himself burning too. They hadn’t let him be there for the amputation. He waited, consumed with fire and the beginning of grief, until a Tranquil healer left the sickroom and dropped a ring into his hand. “One of the Inquisitor’s effects, sir. She can’t wear it now.” He waited until the healer turned away and passed a hand over his eyes. He felt numb, but some part of his brain registered shock as his hand came away wet with tears. 

When Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen were finally allowed to see the Inquisitor, Cassandra was already there in full Divine regalia. 

“Forgive me, my friends,” she murmured. “I felt some prayers were in order. My healers say she…she was very weak.”

Josephine was sniffling, delicate handkerchief in hand. Leliana stood impassively, brow furrowed. Cullen almost thought he saw her lips tremble, but he turned away as his own answered, tears threatening to overwhelm him. He didn’t care that his former colleagues could see obvious tear stains streaking his cheeks. He knew they felt the same. 

Josephine gently gripped Rodka’s right hand, until she seemed to remember the others were in the room. “Cullen, oh, forgive me. I had to—I had to make sure for myself she still lives. But you must sit by her now, as you were before. If you’d like.”

He couldn’t speak, but nodded and took the chair by Rodka’s head. He felt bile rise at the bandages surrounding her left side. Tendrils of red leached out, spreading from the wound that severed her left arm above the elbow. 

“It will be an adjustment,” Leliana said quietly. “She is the Inquisitor now in name only.”

Josephine started to argue, but noticed Cullen’s flat expression. “You are right, Sister Leliana, it will be an adjustment for us all. But perhaps we should let the Inquisitor’s husband have a moment alone?”

Leliana smiled slightly at Cullen. News of their marriage had been quiet, even for her. “Of course. Excuse us, Commander.” 

He watched them whisk noiselessly through the door, stone-still on the chair. Finally he picked up Rodka’s hand, untucking it from the blanket. He felt each of her long fingers, trying to press life into her limp hand. She didn’t stir; she barely breathed, he felt terror rising up in his chest—

He let her hand go and reached into his pocket for the wedding ring. “I am sorry, my love, that you’re not awake for this,” he muttered. “It seems wrong to put a ring on you without your express consent, but we are already married, so I’ll just—I’ll just ask for your forgiveness when you wake up.” He slid the wedding ring over her right ring finger, choking at the memory of their wedding only a week before, when he’d put it on her left. “You will wake up, you know. You will admire this ring and laugh at me again before too long.” He tucked her hand under the blanket again. She was so cold. He wanted to lie down beside her, fall asleep and have her wake up in his arms as if it were all a dream, but she was so still he didn’t dare take his eyes away. 

“You wouldn’t remember this, I’m sure,” he began again, “but once I had a horrible nightmare. Lyrium makes dreaming…strange, and this was one of the worst. I couldn’t tell if I was awake or not, I couldn’t be sure if what I thought was happening was real, and I—I thought I was dying, or losing myself.” A tear fled from his eye, rolling in the tracks of so many others. “But you were there, in the waking world, comforting me. It was a small thing, but your touch gave me a reality. It made me wake up.” More tears fell, and even as Cullen thought he’d never weep again from how much he’d already cried, he couldn’t hold back the sobs. “You’ve always made me wake up. This time I will do the same for you.” He pressed a kiss to Rodka’s forehead. “I need you to wake up.”

* * *

Healers brought Cullen a bowl of broth when they arrived the next morning to change the bandages, startling him awake. Rodka’s hand was finally warm under his. 

“How is she?” he ventured, clearing his throat. He felt the stubble on his chin, as if it would tell him how much time had passed. 

One of the Tranquil looked up from her careful work re-bandaging. “There seems to be no sign of infection. The would will heal, but the magic she endured will be more complicated. In time we will know more.”

Cullen nodded, still absently rubbing his chin. Some of the dark terror of the night before had dissipated, and he decided to eat the broth and seek out a washbasin and some real sleep after the healers left. After he could take her hand one more time. 

He set the bowl down, surprised at how hungry he had been, when she stirred. 

“Cullen?” Her voice was weak but not insensible. 

He was at her side in an instant, hand to her forehead. Sure enough, no fever. “Rodka, my love…” He broke off, a lump forming in his throat. He reached for her right hand and gripped it firmly. 

She tugged, trying to reach around to her left side. “Everything feels so…quiet. Cullen, I can’t feel the mark.”

She must have seen his face contort. “It’s gone, isn’t it,” she said flatly. “My hand. I knew the pain would be too much to keep forever. Solas—“

Cullen started. “Solas?” he blurted before he could stop himself

A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “There is so much to tell. I have to tell it to the council. We must—we must live well and be brave with the time we have.” She shifted up, grimacing in pain but pushing past it to set her feet on the ground. 

He was still holding her hand, awed by her strength but so, so afraid. “The council can wait. You must rest. Your arm—”

“My arm is gone. I am not yet. Help me find some clothes.” 

Cullen knew better than to argue. But he blocked her from standing up, faced her and knelt, cupping her cheeks in his hands. “I will help you, and I’ll follow you to this council and every other like it in the future, in the future you made for us. But let me first be thankful that you are here, and you are alive.” He felt her soften a bit into his touch. “I love you. Thank you for coming back.”

Tears sparked in her eyes. “It was difficult, Cullen,” she said softly. “The mark—well, it was torture by the end. I didn’t want…for a moment, as I collapsed, I didn’t want to survive it. But I would not have you waiting for me in vain.”

He laughed thickly, tears in his throat. “You passed up an opportunity to be a Chantry-sanctified martyr for me?” 

She returned the broken smile. “Of course. If you’ve taught me anything, it’s that true courage is living to fight another day. I can’t be both martyr and Inquisitor.” 

“I would take the Inquisitor any day,” he said, standing and casting about for her dress uniform. 

“And you will,” she replied, looking stronger as she readied herself to stand. 

He helped her dress, a strange new kind of intimacy. He eased the uniform coat over her left arm, rolling up the sleeve so it wouldn’t hang too long. She looked away, and Cullen’s heart broke again—was she mourning her lost ability to shoot a bow, wield her power? But when he stepped back, taking in the cold formality she used to hide her weaknesses, he noticed she had been smiling down at her right hand. 

Rodka looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “My ring finds itself still attached to me, I see.” 

“I hope it’s all right. I wish you’d been awake, but it seemed wrong—”

“Cullen, of course it’s all right.” She looked down, and then in a swift—uncannily swift motion, not at all the invalid she’d been moments before—she closed the gap between them, wrapping her right arm around him and burying her head into his chest. “The thought of losing that too…it’s such a small thing but it isn’t to me…” He felt the warmth of tears seeping through his shirt. “I could have so many other rings. I’m sure my family has plenty of heirlooms. But none would have been yours.” 

He held her as tightly as he could without putting pressure on her wounded arm, letting her weep against him. “I will always be yours, Rodka Trevelyan. Ring or no ring, mark or no mark.” He kissed her hair, half-wishing she would never leave his arms. But she pulled away after another long moment, wiped her eyes quickly and straightened her shoulders. 

“Come with me? It’s a long walk to the council chamber.” 

He nodded, and the pride swelling inside him choked him. She strode briskly through the halls, any hint of pain left behind in the sick room. She flexed her right hand, spinning the ring around her finger absently, as he fell into step a respectful two paces behind her. 

She looked back for an instant before the council doors swung open, her eyes bright and dancing. He returned the smile and waited for her to sweep through the doors. Already he could hear shouts of surprise, Josephine crying out in shock to see the Inquisitor so soon. For once Cullen didn’t dread the intrigue, the machinations. Rodka knew how to make an entrance, and he’d been born to follow.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at a DA fic and it was tricky! I love all the characters so much but this one needed to be just Cullen (and me, obvi) working through the events of Trespasser. Anyone have a cure for missing your inquisitor?


End file.
